


Holding On to Hell

by Alexandria (heartfullofelves)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e10 Victory, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Unbury Your Gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-24 15:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartfullofelves/pseuds/Alexandria
Summary: Saxa wakes up on the battlefield.





	Holding On to Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [The_Kissing_Rock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kissing_Rock/pseuds/The_Kissing_Rock) in the [Bring_Them_Back_Fic_Television](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bring_Them_Back_Fic_Television) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Character: Saxa  
> Cause of Death: Sword attack during battle  
> Deathisode: Victory (3x10)  
> Write a story where Saxa lives.

Everything hurts. That is what Saxa first notices when she opens her eyes. Her body has received a thorough battering, and when she summons the strength to move her head and glance down at her torso, she sees blood seeping out of a wound in her stomach. Gritting her teeth, she puts some of her weight on her elbow so she can feel her back with her other hand. Her hand comes back absent of blood, and she almost chuckles – the Roman fuck’s sword did not pierce all the way through.

Still, she hurts and bleeds, and she collapses back onto the ground, clasping one hand to her stomach in a feeble effort to stop the blood flow. Before long, she slips away again. Gannicus stands absent this time. She remembers him catching her as she fell, remembers him holding her, remembers thinking she must be dying and not being able to form a sentence in Latin to let him know how much he means to her. For the first time in years, a tear spills out of her eye.

When she wakes again, thousands of bodies litter the battlefield. She takes a moment to mourn her fallen comrades, but it pleases her to recognise many of the dead as Romans. She wonders how long it will take until she joins them.

Her hopes lift when two horses gallop across the field. As it approaches, she recognises the riders and tries to call out, but it comes out as a cough that wracks her whole body and makes her gasp until the throbbing stops. Steeling herself, she clears her throat, then tries again.

“Fuck your mother, over here!” she yells in German.

She does not remember much after that, but Agron, Nasir, Spartacus, and herself are the only rebel warriors to leave the battlefield alive and uncaptured. On horseback, the four of them head towards the Alps. Saxa thinks she and Spartacus are slowing the group down by clinging to life and trying to remain in this world a moment longer. She does not complain.

She stands too weak to observe the reactions when they and the other rebels reunite. Once they stop moving, agony takes hold of her again, and she faints in the arms of whoever’s holding her up.

This time, Saxa wakes surrounded by mourners. She frowns, certain the tears cannot be for her, until she spots the funeral mound with Agron’s special shield on its top. Again, she frowns, until she sees her German brother talking to Laeta. She casts her mind back to earlier. It proves a struggle, shifting through the fuzzy memories, but one in particular takes root: that of Spartacus, injured beyond repair yet still asking for a sword.

She closes her eyes. Sighs. Their symbol of hope has gone, as has their last chance of victory against the Romans. But, she reassures herself, at least they put up a good fight. All who died did so with honour, and died free. One cannot ask for anything more.

She looks up when she feels a hand on her shoulder, and manages a weak smile. “Told you I return,” she whispers.

“I know.” Belesa cups her cheek and presses a gentle kiss to her lips. “We have mended your wound as best we can, but we must make haste. Can you stand?”

Saxa assesses her body, and nods. The pain still lingers, but is concentrated around her stab wound now rather than throughout her whole body. She holds out her hand for Belesa to help her onto her feet.

She needs a moment before the world stops spinning, but with Belesa’s support, she can place one foot in front of the other. It’s an improvement from earlier.

At a snail’s pace, they follow the rest of the group, who have already started to move. Before long, another woman approaches to help her walk. Saxa does not know whether to curse or laugh at the gods: it’s Sybil.

She accepts Sybil’s offer of aid, putting her other arm around the girl’s shoulders, and tells her, “I not see, little thing, but he dead.”

She expects Sybil to gasp or cry, but instead the girl replies, “I know.”

Saxa meets her eyes, and they share a nod. They both loved Gannicus, in their separate ways, and now he has gone. Jealousy and bitterness have no point now, no matter how much it hurt that he left her for Sybil without a word. Saxa saw the look on his face when they both thought she was dying, and he still cared for her. She will keep that memory always, and will not resent the pretty little thing Gannicus left behind. Sybil has suffered just as much as she has.

After sunset, the rebels stop and make camp. Saxa’s exhaustion means all she can do is sit on the ground and hammer in tent pegs. She doesn’t protest that she should have more responsibilities, and knows that if Belesa doesn’t argue with her, Agron will.

Evening meal is a small, sombre affair. Their portions of broth are tiny, and none except the children speak. It serves a stark contrast to last night and all that came before, when the camp would be full of noise if not of cheer. They have enough for a mouthful of wine each, but no more. Some of the group are weeping, and Saxa almost wants to join them. In the year she has been rebelling against the Romans, she has met and lost countless friends. In a year, the losses stack up.

Her mood remains when she slips into bed soon afterwards. Belesa joins her, but instead of kissing or fucking, Belesa wraps her arms around Saxa, holding her close. Saxa inhales, and buries her face in Belesa’s neck.

“Do you…wish to talk about it?” murmurs Belesa.

“Do you?” Saxa returns.

Belesa’s answering chuckle is grim. “Not tonight.”

Mm,” says Saxa.

They are still processing the day’s events and the end of their rebellion, and Saxa will need time to find words in her native tongue, and then to translate them into Latin as best she can. Before today, the language barrier has not troubled her, but now she is beginning to wish she had a better command of Latin, since it stands the common language for most of the rebels. _Fuck the Romans_ , she thinks for the millionth time today. _Fuck them and their stupid language._

Belesa strokes Saxa’s cheek. “Then sleep. Tomorrow will not be easy.”

That makes Saxa laugh. It is never going to be easy, that was decided for her when the filthy Romans invaded her land and enslaved her people. But they have knocked her down before, and she has risen again each time. Tomorrow promises to be no different.


End file.
